Posts Tagged ‘color’

color me green

Thursday, February 3rd, 2011

Green, green, green, green, green
Close your eyes, green, green,
I mean it, close your eyes and just see
green — green, green.

Green, green, brown, red green, green
green, brown, brown, red, green green,
evergreen trees, green, green, brown,
green, brown, red, black, white, gray,
green, grey, flowing creek, rushing water,
green, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
green, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
green, green, brown, red, black, white,

green, green, brown, red, black, white,
blue, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
blue, blue, green, green, brown, red, black, white,
blue, green, green, blue, brown, red, blue, white,
pitter, patter, blue, gray, white, gray, green, green
rain sprinkles everything, gray, green, blue, white
green, green, green, green

Breathe deeply, blue-green, blue-green, gray
white now red, orange, yellow, red, red, red,
brown, red, brown, green, red, brown,
as the bear devours your leg, red, red, brown on green.

We are always [green] surprised by what we [green] don’t expect.
So be ready for the [green] uninvited and serve them your best
green, green, red, brown and black, black, always black
— and blue, blue, blue. Boo-hoo. Woo-hoo. Blue, blue.

Green.

one ton run

Wednesday, January 12th, 2011

Rain again stains the main plain pane
and the sun is fun when you’ve won a ton

But to rut your gut with a slut and a mutt
your butt must be cut with a nut in your hut.

Its crackers for hackers you slackers
when for smackers and stackers you track

And wonder and blunder with hair all asunder
to fund her down under with someone who gunned her.

So pick up a stick and lick on a tick
for thick as its trick is its click on your wick

When the rain is a train with a mighty refrain
some drain must remain inside of your brain.

The son with a gun’s not the one on the run
for the sun on your bun is just for my fun.

fore

Wednesday, January 27th, 2010

Hooligans and flies flit about
and wonder at the color and size
of things that float above them
not knowing why or if it even matters.

Flowers and cars careen
in colors bent on swinging
while puffs of flour and sand
melt into the gathering dusk.

“Its time for lunch” said one
while another shouted “dinner!”
Who knows what may come up
after a breakfast of leaves.

If the podium of ranting
carries the font of knowledge
into the hearts and hearses
that surround our halls

Its high time that someone salutes
and bids welcome to the grunt
that heralds the fainting of the shrewd
in the temple of the curiously sane.

But why not wonder at the light
that passes over the soft hills and shelves
that hide the pleasant from the cool
and picks up the shadows of sins

Held deeply within the folds of tissue
that surround our nest and issue forth
a scent of cinnamon and creosote
on the greening of the sands.

Come forth now into the darkness
and feel the cold wind of rebirth
and wallow in its soft and comforting
blast of invigorating fire. Hold forth.

For the fourth time, come forward
and force the foreskin formulary of flint
into a furnace of fuming fallacy
and fall into glorious failure faintly.

the scent of cents

Sunday, December 20th, 2009

What I really love about being an artist, a painter,
is the creating of things that no one has ever seen.

Creating environments in whose two-dimensional space
I loose myself in a world that is totally fresh and new —

colors and shapes that are filled with energy and movement
that propel my soul off its feet and into a weightless flight

through what becomes a multidimensional scape where
physical, spiritual, intellectual and emotional intertwine

to make me one with the dance of light and fire,
of sound and wind, of muscle and blood that is the ringing

of a bell, the refracting of a ray, the heat of a thrill,
the breath of life and the mystery of death revealed all at once.

Its the complexity of the simple and the simplicity of the complex,
the amazement in the mundane and the peace of chaos

that brings me back in spite of my more practical nature
to explore the idiocy of intent and the sanctity of the perverse.

Roll on silver diamond, bring me back the painted face
and out of the mustached harlot a return to the source.

Grind on as I move about you like a humming bird in hunger
doing everything that makes sense more than the scent of cents.

rolling boil

Thursday, August 13th, 2009

On the day that Les Paul died
I was making blackberry jam
and listening to Amahd Jamal
and other jazz on the radio

while I’m stirring the mashed fruit
waiting for a boil to occur
I watch my stirring motions
round and round then in eights

my patience reminds me of times past
and the beauty of wooden cameras
and old Leicas and Stetson hats
and double-breasted suits that
my father wore in warmer times

when he too grooved on jazz
playing his sax in swing bands
and plying his trade as a photographer
of families and nudes, dancers and
mountains, babies and soldiers.

As the pot reaches a boil its time
to add all that sugar while stirring fast
it looks like the earth as seen from space
with all those white clouds stirring around
against that dark surface of goodness

After a full rolling boil, I love that phrase,
when my stirring no longer abates its fury
it must be kept up for just one minute, no longer
and then ladled into waiting jars to set

and now my mate Jane again assists
bringing the sterile jars out of their water
and onto the counter for filling and when done
exclaims another successful jam session.

midspringnight’s dream

Saturday, May 16th, 2009

The muse has returned from its mid-spring night’s dream
of my old friends John and Doug and the band of merry pranksters
from the halcyon days of grass and acid, the second renaissance
that brought about the summer of love reborn last night

as a romp on the hill to the tunes of rock where I sat transfixed
awaiting a breakfast of pancakes on a couch with four girls so young
and promising in their wisdom unfit for their age in bodies to match
that thrilled my heart and loins as I left them to their joy and sisterhood

to return to the building where ensconced at small tables were
old acquaintances chatting of things and sipping espresso in bicas white
while I searched for my friends in my dream last night aside my mate
who life has trained to have everything in a neat little boxes with tags

while mine hangs out not even in bags but strewn with an abandon
that to me makes order like Thelonius Monk and Miles Davis arrangements
to her Bach and Mendlesohn played on the same instruments with
different styles in a place where I can enjoy her music and she but tolerates

the cacophony I crave to her pedantic ordering that makes my heart sing
as the opposites ring like a bell that reverberates to my core in love
that keeps me from the boredom and death of my own cravings met
and this was only a faulty remembering of my mid-spring night’s dream

perhaps brought on by digestion of a most beautiful Brazilian meal
and exposure to some truly amazing tiny folk art images by the cook’s
mother past in a neighbor’s home where love and life are evident
in the very surrounds crafted and assembled with care and skill

in their own special world, the ones we all keep in our big boxes we call
our castles and castles they are for this is where we reign and look out
on the world to see what differences pass and which we like and those
we don’t but put up with to appreciate the differences that bring song

to the streets rather than bullets and rocks, singing and dancing rather
than death and crying through the barking and grinding and roaring
of leaf blowers and trucks, of howling dogs and rats along with cats
and the occasional lizard and fly in this land where you and I live and love.

I only got pieces of that dream the muse left behind in the dust of morning
and the cool of night passing too fast in its ending scene to be caught
in words but left in feeling on the theater seats of my minds arena to be
spread like apple butter on the toast of this verse, lettered only in crumbs.

another beautiful day

Sunday, April 26th, 2009

Got the word basket out onto my computer screen
and I’m tossing in the early scraps that precede the making
of any sense and finding hidden poignancy and insight
in the fact that at some point something of value will emerge.

Its cooler out my open window this morning, the sun
is over the nearby hills illuminating the film of dirt
that clings to the panes and makes a screen for the projection
of hibiscus shadows dancing in time with the swaying cords

of the up-pulled blinds and the sun is reflecting off the mirrored
doors of the closet behind me and into my eyes off the monitors
glossy surface telling me its time to change things a bit but
wait, there’s a really cool looking rainbow visible in that reflection

it is very ordered and linear with the colors displaying as increments
along a long horizontal line that is aiming directly at my head
as if it may be carrying some message from a distant universe
only it can’t get through since the fingerprints on the monitor

are distracting my gaze and drawing me into the beautiful depth
of the other reflections that my lingering study is discovering like
bits of random but purposefully placed anchors of emoted flotsam
crying out for interpretation and inclusion in a dance that’s about to

engulf the entire cacophony of this morning’s bird twittered sunrise
in waves of arhythmic orgasm that surround my entire being
including those aural extensions so rarely realized and now
I can feel my personal inclusion in this rebirth symphony

cleansing away the dark of night past and winding up the spring
that energizes this daily cycle of life in which every atom plays
a leading role where up meets down and in out rebounding
in this timeless infinite universe we keep clawing at. Aaah.

Another beautiful day.

spring hits

Friday, April 17th, 2009

So, when it hits, its good to go with it
whether its hunger, creative inspiration or
merely a whim or long past dream recalled

after walking with your love through familiar
but ever renewing streets past ever changing homes
and the hopes or eventualities of running into friends

whose company you enjoy and appreciate more
with every exchange and encounter from whence
comes a warm blanket of neighborhood calm

and each conversation leads to new discoveries
in the tableau of yet unseen lives that we try to plan
and will nonetheless accept as they come

over the wall and into our welcoming garden
where we can enjoy our engaging obsessions for
changing, creating and building onto

houses and walls and courtyards covered with
the shade of well-loved trees and the scents of citrus
and the colors of spring in the desert.

ode to a brown paper bag

Wednesday, April 15th, 2009

Forty years ago, could it be to the day?
I was smitten by your radiance touching so many lives in a sacramental way
cradling sustenance in crispness, awaiting dutifully our lunchtime ravaging.

Made from trees long since cut from rainforest deep,
hauled on rigs through dust and rain,
floated on rivers caressed by fish and well worn stones,
past farms and cave, docks and culverts
along with kindred sticks, jostled and led by boats and poles
to the mill for grinding and mashing into a pulp, just for my use.

Your color of brown seems so natural and motherly warm in tone.

Your crispness when new belies the softness of your tender grip
on contents so precious.

Like a troop of well trained soldiers or a choir of talented youth you come
stacked with each other in such orderly piles, folded so that a trained grab
at your folded bottom can be met with a clutch of fingers on your opening
and snapped deftly into a welcoming and commodiously soft box as it were.

And that sound of your opening, aah, what a treat to the ears —
accompanied with the sight of your crisp pleats neatly outlining your shape
and that soft translucence. The crinkly rustling foretells the beautiful sound
of un-ruffling that will precede my later consumption of your contents.

Once filled you begin your multifaceted positive contribution to the days
of workers all over the world and accompany me in my commute
providing solace and security knowing you are carefully carrying
vital edibles that will nourish me through my labors.

Your presence on my desk or worktable comforts me through the mornings,
knowing you are guarding my precious lunch.

You are easy to handle, easily moved and tucked out of sight or into protecting cover.

You are so accommodating when I need to write a name or sign on your side
and so willingly adapt to each users style of closure, folding, rolling, tucking
or just grabbed and mashed shut on lifting.

You allow sneaking in to grab a furtive snack and when the lunch hour
finally arrives, let me withdraw your contents a piece at a time
without revealing all of your treasures.

You know how to carry a surprise if filled by another. And, what surprises
those often are. They carry love and caring with them,
nestled in the warmth of your enclosure.

I’m sure the love-filled contents you’ve carried have resulted in nights
of sweat-drenched ardor and subsequent births of beautiful children
who will grow up to experience your selfless servitude.

Once emptied, you are so easy to refold into a compact little rectangle
that fits neatly into a pocket to be reused over and over until
either your fibers tire of their intertwining or have their connections
loosened fatally by a leaking fruit.

You are so easy and guiltless to dispose of since you are recyclable
either formally or informally in the street where rain or sun
will quickly decompose you back to your element.

Thank you brown paper bag for being such a close and personal friend
all these years and in all your reincarnations, bless you.

culture medium

Friday, March 27th, 2009

This morning I decided to not get up right away
I chose instead to let the ideas sit,
to let the seeds germinate or ferment just a bit more
until either their sprouting leaves or gasses
forced upon my consciousness thoughts that compel
my getting up from the succulent repose.

I know there were gems lost, bubbling down into the muck
of my fertile mind’s deepest folds perhaps to resurface
unexpectedly while in the midst of some unrelated activity
that would cause me to run for a pen and paper or
curse my lack thereof and carry on relying on
its coming out again when its really needed.

If faith truly moves mountains it surely can handle
a small pile of mental excrement, even though it be
weighted with its core of glistening gold. And, like
a fast breaking wind it suddenly rears its head and
bellows for release against the restraints of serious
activities like eating, sleeping and balancing my feet.

I am an artist, a painter of shapes and colors that
make images of things as yet unseen. I create
and others wonder at the existence of such beauty
exposed on surfaces attached to their walls. I mess with
things that most consider ephemeral anyway, random
fluid edges defining amorphous entities and virtual environs.

But now I am moving into more serious messing with
the forces of our cohesive existence as social beings, as
I begin to create using not colorful ephemera but a medium
that is at the very center of our civility — words. They have
more meaning and power being the essence of our
thoughts that govern our conscious and subconscious.

This is some heavy shit man. I mean I could actually expose the
brilliant demon that lurks just below this thin skin of sanity I’ve felt
forced to retain. My thoughts painted as purple blobs flowing into
sharp-edged red polygons, punctuated by brilliant green shards
are seen as merely an artist’s play, hung safely on the wall behind
the couch. But words expressed in a similar fashion — that’s

something else. These creations could really do something more
serious, good or bad. That excites me and makes me wonder why
I have avoided this medium all these years. It matters not in fact
since there is only the present and I choose to make it filled with light
and let others interpret as they choose, my words and images
to enlighten or frighten, to love or to leave. My world, love it or heave it.

Immediately I see the other side, mine as creator, writer;
my responsibilities and the burdens I must carry to just get into
that frame of mind where simile and meaning mix and blend as layers of
color and light, where names and places are eluded to and defined
but the readers mind is the stage, the wall on which they hang
until their own winds blow them off to shatter into seeds for their own gestation.

So I’m glad I didn’t grope around for that paper and pen this
morning at first light, when the cat was scratching the chairs and bed,
mocking birds and doves sang their springtime songs and my thoughts
were just beginning to lay themselves out in the red glow of dawn
on my eyelids closed with the loving weight of pre-waking bliss. Glad
I let them settle into that fertile soil and fester, rot and burst on their own.